She’d named him Dr. Cotton because, back then, he was white and soft and looked as if cotton balls had been sewn all over his body.

“Wouldn’t Dr. Wool be a more fitting name?” her father had asked repeatedly.

At the time she had no idea what her father was getting at, and so she ignored his suggestion and he eventually stopped asking.

More than once Mrs. O’Brien had told her, “I think Dr. Cotton is a lovely name.”

Although she didn’t need him the way she used to, Dr. Cotton was still important. She talked to him sometimes—usually in her head, usually in bed, right before she got up in the morning or when she was trying to fall asleep. She imagined him answering in a sweet, low voice. She talked to him the way she supposed some people talked to God.

Oh, Dr. Cotton, you wouldn’t believe what happened at school. . . .

Dear Dr. Cotton, let me do well on my history test. . . .

Please, Dr. Cotton, make the Professor be in a good mood today. . . .

That night, her interior monologue began, Well, Dr. Cotton, it was a very interesting day. . . . She went on to tell him about Casey and Lindy, the remembered moments making their way into the catalog of her life. And then she stopped addressing Dr. Cotton and simply let her mind drift, one thought leading to the next. From the Eiffel Tower to France to Natalie. Wearily, she pulled the covers up to her chin and adjusted her pillow. Her thoughts had a rhythm to them, like music. Eventually, the music slowed and dragged and froze. She’d fallen asleep.

Happy.

9 • Poetry Group

Early Sunday morning Amelia was pulled from bed by a wave of good smells. She hurried downstairs, not fully herself yet, and stubbed her toe on the kitchen threshold, making a clumsy entrance.

Mrs. O’Brien rushed forward, steadying Amelia with an oddly graceful hug. “Careful,” she said.

Amelia closed her eyes and surrendered to the embrace. “Ouch,” she whispered. “Ouch, ouch, ouch.”

“Poor thing,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “I know that hurts.”

Amelia let her head rest against Mrs. O’Brien’s shoulder until the dull pain was gone. It struck her that she’d soon be taller than Mrs. O’Brien, and for some reason, the thought made her sad. “Do I smell coffee cake?” she asked, stepping back, hoping.

Mrs. O’Brien nodded. “And there’ll be date scones and blueberry muffins, too. Today’s my poetry group.”

Amelia smiled. The meeting of Mrs. O’Brien’s monthly poetry group meant delicious food and lots of it. The group always met at Amelia’s home, because as Mrs. O’Brien explained, everyone loved discussing poetry in the home of an English professor, surrounded by bookshelves crammed with important books.

And, if by some chance, the group caught a glimpse of Gordon Albright, Ph.D., or even better, he offered an opinion of or a biographical tidbit about the current poet of the month, well, the group (eight women in their seventies) was beside itself with joy.